


Shelter From the Storm

by kungfuwaynewho



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, First Time, Plot, Travelogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-27
Updated: 2013-08-27
Packaged: 2017-12-24 19:25:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/943740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kungfuwaynewho/pseuds/kungfuwaynewho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Jaime rescues Brienne from the bear pit, they must travel south, to King's Landing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Evenfall Hall, like any castle in the Seven Kingdoms, was filled with many particular odors. The kitchens smelled of onions and garlic and fresh-baked bread; the smiths and farriers' shops belched out acrid smoke; there was the horse-stink of the stables; not to mention the privies in the bailey, the garderobe of the main keep, the cesspits all round. But on most days a salt breeze came in from the sea, washing away all those other smells until they were only memories on the air. The faint echo of horse and coal and even shit in that sea-salt air wasn't all that unpleasant, really, and years later, Brienne would call up the memory of that smell as she made her way around the Gods Eye, heading south to King's Landing.

The land here smelled of death. Bodies rotting in cottages, rotting on the lake shore, rotting whilst hanging from gibbets. Crows were a thick, black blanket on the land, and their cries echoed in Brienne's mind even when the birds were silent. Wild dogs had grown bold indeed, and the night was filled with the howling of distant wolves, and even some not-so-distant wolves.

They made camp well away from the villages lining the lake, though the corpse-stink was still hanging in the air. Steelshanks Walton and his men industriously gathered wood for a fire, hunted down a few rabbits, and cooked a runny oat porridge from their stores. Brienne withdrew from the main camp, finding a narrow hollow winding its way through the trees; it might have been a creek, once, but had long since dried up, the bed now filled in with dirt and soft moss. It was always a challenge to camp with so many men, but since Jaime had returned for her at Harrenhal--

_(Since he rescued me from the bear pit...)_

\--she had been given a wide berth by all. Only Qyburn seemed to be interested in her, and Brienne would not meet his probing, slimy gaze.

Brienne saw to her and Jaime's pack horses herself, feeding and watering the poor creatures, tying their ropes to a branch and wiping down their coats. Then she unloaded the packs, setting them in the old creek bed. The saddles she hung over another branch. Steelshanks had set one of his men to handle these duties, but Brienne didn't wish to be beholden to any of Lord Bolton's men any more than strictly necessary. Even she, tall and manly as she was, had suffered far too many times from the unwelcome advances of men who thought that simply because they had assisted her with some mundane task, they then had the right to demand access to her body in one way or another.

Jaime sat upon a rock, his hand gently cupping the bandaged end of his other arm, watching her. He had been silent nearly all this day's ride, but it wasn't the brooding and dangerous silence of before, as they had traveled to Harrenhal, his severed hand hanging about his neck. This was something contemplative, and, Brienne thought, restorative.

The porridge had finished cooking, laced with meager shreds of rabbit meat, enough to lend some flavor. Brienne dipped out two bowls, returning to the creek bed. She carefully sat Jaime's bowl in his lap, taking care to avoid bumping it into his stump, but also trying to move quickly and smoothly enough so he didn't notice her care, and would not accuse her of treating him like a helpless infant. He grunted his thanks and ate. Brienne found another rock and joined him.

“None of the men have said anything to you, have they?” he asked some minutes later, carefully scraping the last of the porridge from his bowl. He did not look at her. The men had said plenty to her back in Harrenhal, of course, especially once she had been stuffed into that ridiculous dress, but nothing since they had begun making their way to King's Landing.

“No,” she answered shortly, not wishing to discuss it.

“I've only noticed that you always make our camp some distance from the others,” he remarked mildly. Now he did look at her, that frank appraisal that both unnerved her and interested her. How few people, men or women, actually _looked_ at her.

“Men stink,” she said. That earned a smile. “The more men, the greater the stink.”

“I should imagine I stink by now,” he said, the ghost of that smile still lingering on his face. His was a face meant to smile, she thought. But it was also a face meant to be clean-shaven – and clean, for that matter. A body meant to wield a sword. Shoulders meant to carry fine armor. It seemed the gods now cared little for what they had once intended.

Brienne took his bowl, walking a few feet before she responded. “Oh, you stink the worst of all.” As she walked to the water to rinse out their bowls, the memory of his laugh, no matter how short it had been, lightened her heart.

By the time she returned, Jaime had stretched out in the dry creek bed, his head upon one of the packs. Brienne had placed them a short distance apart earlier; it appeared he had moved one of the packs, so that they would be laying side by side. _Were we not close enough before?_ She thought about saying something, or perhaps just moving the other pack herself, but decided, as always, that it would be too much a slight; and besides,she was growing used to it.

There ended up being a hands-breadth between them, perhaps a little less. Enough distance that she might shift without jostling his arm. Though Qyburn had cleaned it, and despite the stabilizing sling, it was clear it still pained him. Brienne would not add to that pain.

She wished she could see the stars above, but the night sky was hooded by dark clouds, and the trees still bore many leaves as well. Brienne stared at the leaves instead, watching them flutter in a breeze that didn't reach the ground.

“What are you thinking about?” Jaime asked in a low voice. He had turned his head, and it was as though he murmured directly into her ear. Brienne was aware of his eyes on her again, of the heat coming from his body. She did her best to ignore all of it.

“The sea wind blowing over Evenfall Hall.” She closed her eyes, wishing that wind to wash over her now; let it clean everything away. “Salt and sunshine, that's what it smelled like.”

“Do you miss it?”

Brienne thought on his question. Was it truly the sea breeze she missed? Or was Jaime instead asking if she missed Tarth itself? It was hard to say. Sometimes it seemed she scarcely remembered her childhood, and that her life had begun the day she had first put on armor.

Jaime took her silence for answer enough. “I miss the smell of baking bread. And cakes, and pies. Anything made of flour, butter, and sugar, really. It's a miracle I wasn't fat.”

The smile felt foreign on her face, but Brienne was glad of it nonetheless.

“I suppose we all miss the smells of our childhoods,” she said.

“Well, not a tanner's child.” 

“No. Probably not him.”

Brienne thought that if she were brave, she would reach down and take his hand. But of course, his hand wasn't there for her to take. So she turned to her side, letting the leaves rustle overhead, unseen and unremarked.

* * *

They had waited until they were a full day's ride away from Harrenhal before they stopped. Qyburn tended to her wounds, the scratches the bear's claws had left, here and there. Jaime hovered nearby like some anxious septa, peppering the former Maester with questions.

“I'm fine,” she finally gritted out, staring at the ground, doing her best to hide the wince when Qyburn cleaned out another furrow through her flesh. Jaime made a sound, swallowing whatever he had planned to say, she thought, and stomped off to demand one of the men boil more water.

Later that night, sitting beside each other as the men made camp, Brienne made herself ask the question that had been on her mind since he had first leapt into the pit. “Why did you come back?”

He looked at her as though she were a terrible fool, and perhaps she was. But then his face softened, and Brienne felt as pierced through by his gaze as she had been in the baths. She could not have looked away even if she had wished to. “I couldn't have lived with myself,” he said in a near-whisper, reaching up to brush a lock of hair back from her cheek.

Brienne thought of all the things that he did live with. Yet he couldn't live with the thought of her death? Or only his own inaction? The latter seemed far more likely, but the rasp of his fingertips across her cheek, his eyes drifting over her face...

Qyburn found them then, wanting to check Jaime's bandages. Brienne left them, taking care not to stray too far; there were more ruffians and oathbreakers than smallfolk these days. Or at least, it seemed that way. And she certainly didn't want to escape Harrenhal, the bear pit, even Bolton himself, only to get stabbed in the back in the hope of a few coins, or worse.

When it was full-dark, she came back and prepared a place to sleep, which was nothing more than finding a place out of the wind; in this case, the lee of a ruined wall. She bedded down, Steelshanks' men no more than thirty paces away, the coals of their campfire still glowing. Brienne was surprised when Jaime found her, glaring down at her with what seemed to be anger.

“Why are you so far away?” he demanded, and instead of waiting for an answer, he grumbled and made his way to the ground, lying in front of her, his back blocking her view completely.

“Are you afraid I'll run off?” she asked. The thought hadn't occurred to her before now, but she was half-tempted to stay awake and see if the opportunity arose. Jaime said nothing.

And so it had been thus far, their near-fortnight on the road. Or off the road, as was more often the case. No matter where Brienne chose to sleep, Jaime found a way to bed down right beside her. One night, she was convinced that he felt some need to keep her safe himself, as though by returning to Harrenhal he had taken personal responsibility for her well-being thereafter; the next night, she was sure that he found Walton's men as repugnant as she did, whether or not they were temporarily on his side. It was only by comparison with the alternative that she came up as the better option. 

Two days' ride took them past the Gods Eye, but the going would be harder and slower from now on. Steelshanks Walton had decided they would leave the kingsroad, cutting their way through the countryside. Brienne had had enough cutting through the countryside to last the rest of her life. How strange, that this journey should make the previous one with Jaime, just the two of them, seem so simple, even somehow enjoyable. Memory was a fickle thing.

“How will you bring the girls back to Lady Stark?” Jaime asked out of the blue; there had been nothing but silence from him for most of the day. In truth, Brienne had not thought that far. It had been treacherous enough to travel before, a grown man and woman, both armed. How would a woman and two children fare? Brienne thought about asking whether she would be given a guard of her own, ten or fifteen men to accompany them back to the Twins or wherever Lady Stark and her son happened to be by then; instead, she just shrugged her shoulders.

“This is something you need to figure out,” Jaime insisted, putting his heels to his horse, coming up exactly even with her. 

“And I shall,” she said, “as soon as we make it to King's Landing, and I find both the Stark girls present, and the exchange is agreed upon. There's no point in planning something that may never come to pass.”

“And why shouldn't we make it to King's Landing?” Her horse was growing tired, Brienne could tell. She rode it a little harder, trying to stay ahead of the others. There was always at least one rider ahead of her, a scout of sorts, but so far ahead he was never in earshot. Brienne would dismount soon, walking her horse, soon falling behind, and the camp would be made by the time she caught up. It was a system that had worked well so far, keeping her away from Steelshanks' men most of the time.

“You have remarkable faith, considering all that has happened to you on the journey thus far.” It was meant only as the mildest of rebukes, but Jaime seemed to take it hard. After a moment of clumsiness with the reins, he turned his horse and trotted back toward the men.

Some time later, as she was walking beside her horse, he passed her again, still riding. He did not look at her. _Fine. Let him be offended. It was only the truth._ But she found that it was unpleasant to have him ignore her, and resolved to smooth things over when they reunited at tonight's camp. They had gone through too much together; they had to at least exchange him for the Stark girls before their paths separated again. And for a moment, Brienne thought about leaving him in King's Landing. Riding away, likely to never see him again. She was surprised when the thought gave her pain, actual, physical pain. A spear thrust into soft flesh. Brienne shook her head and marched on.

But though she marched for two hours more, well past sunset, she came across no sign of the men, of any camp, or of Jaime himself. She retraced her steps, looking for tracks, but she had never been any great hunter. And doubling back on her own tracks had confused the issue considerably.

A wolf howled, someplace close.

She could walk all through the night, trying to find them, but they were probably all bedded down themselves by now. Her horse needed to rest. And so did she, loath though she was to admit it. Once not too long ago she could have easily traveled day and night and day again and scarcely felt it, but the last year had aged her more than the simple passage of time should have allowed. When next she came to water, just a series of puddles in a low-lying bit of forest, she watered the horse and fed it from her saddle pack. There was a hard heel of bread and a few dried apples in the other pack, but Brienne decided to save them for morning. She found a nice, big tree and nestled herself down amongst its roots. 

She would find Jaime, and the others, tomorrow.


	2. Chapter 2

“Well, then maybe the stupid bitch should've kept pace,” the greasy man said under his breath. Yohn, his name was, though most of the other men only ever called him Thorny. Jaime didn't know why, and didn't much care. What he did care about were the nods he saw, the mutters of agreement. Jaime took three big steps forward and punched Thorny in the face.

Swords, knives, and cudgels were quickly drawn, but Steelshanks stepped between Jaime and the rest with a raised hand. “Enough!” he shouted, but his men didn't put their weapons down. They were all on the knife's edge now, it seemed.

Jaime had made them remain in camp for the next day, waiting for Brienne to find them. He had never liked the way she would fall behind in the evening, catching up only at dusk, or sometimes even after full dark. And now, it seemed, something had befallen her. She had not shown up last night, or at any point during the night, and not even in the morning, as he had been expecting. Now the sun was falling below the trees, and still there had been no sight of her. Steelshanks had set out his two scouts, doubling back over the path from the day before, ranging east and west as they returned; neither had found anything.

Thorny stood, wiping blood from his mouth. The look he shot Jaime from under bushy black brows was positively murderous. Jaime would have to keep an eye on that one.

“We'll remain another night,” Steelshanks said, having to convince his men and Jaime both, “and then we continue on in the morning.”

“And what if she isn't with us?” Jaime demanded, shaking out his hand. Honestly, it had been a good punch, considering he had used his left hand and all. He wondered if anyone else would like to queue up and let him practice.

“Then the woman will simply have to make her own way to King's Landing.” Steelshanks was trying to sound gentle, Jaime knew, but there was a glint in the man's eye he did not trust. “That is, if she's still alive.”

Jaime looked at Steelshanks first with suspicion, then a rising, dreadful certainty. He could not say for sure that all the men had been present at camp last night. Might Steelshanks have sent back a rider or two to find Brienne and...? Jaime did not like to think on it. But he could not have been the only one to have taken note of her usual riding and walking routine. _We're very sorry, my lord, but a brigand must have come upon her and taken her unawares._ Though what brigand would have a chance against Brienne? _Or perhaps it was a pack of wolves. Do we not hear them, closer and closer each night?_ But that was nearly as inconceivable. 

“You do as you like,” Jaime said, finding a seat, ignoring the hundred aches as he did so. “I will not continue forward one step until she is found.”

“But we must make all haste to--”

“Must we?” Jaime looked every inch a pauper, he knew, even compared to the dirty, scraggly men around him. He was filthy himself, covered with lice, no doubt, bearded and unkempt. Yet he felt something rise up inside him, a power such as he only felt with a sword in his hand, a horse between his legs, cape billowing out behind him, the wind in his hair. The power of his name, perhaps, though Jaime thought it more than that. It was the power of being a lord over the land, of sharing in the dominion of these kingdoms. That he should be talked to by such a man as Steelshanks Walton! Jaime did not have to rise, did not have to bluster, did not need to swing a sword in the air. He did not even need to raise his voice. The power was there, filling his chest, and he was sure the rest of them felt it.

“The country is not safe, my lord,” Steelshanks said lamely, and Jaime knew that he had won.

* * *

There was a holdfast in good order a few leagues to the south, sitting atop a treeless hill yet surrounded by dense forest. One would have to journey through that dense forest quite a ways to find the holdfast, which was likely why it was still in good order. The scout reported no sign of bodies or any other violence, and the stream behind the hill seemed clean. “It were my uncle's hall,” the scout told Steelshanks and Jaime when he reported back. “That's how I knew to look for it, see? But they aren't none of them there.”

Steelshanks left two men at their former camp should Brienne come that way, and the rest of them made their way to the holdfast. Stone walls on the first level, timber on the second, with a snug, thatched roof. Jaime preferred shingles or tiles, but thatch would do as long as there weren't any storms. The stable wasn't quite large enough for their horses, but it would do. The privy was still sweet, though likely wouldn't be after they'd gone. Jaime wondered why the holdfast had been abandoned; it was as safe a refuge as a man could expect these days, in or out of a castle.

He watched Steelshanks and the scouts closely, looking for signs of impatience. If they knew Brienne to be dead, they would only be biding their time, waiting for Jaime to give up on her. But they seemed rather relieved to have found a place to rest; they had all been riding hard. 

Jaime would have liked to rest, but all he could see when he closed his eyes was Brienne, dead on the ground somewhere, crows pecking at her flesh. So he resolved not to close his eyes.

“You must rest, my lord,” Qyburn said when he found Jaime still awake late that second night, staring out a second-storey window. “It will be quite some time before you have regained your strength, and even so mild an exertion as this may set you back.”

“Might her wounds have festered?” Jaime whispered. Brienne could fight off any man, he believed, and any beast for that matter, but could she fight off disease in her own body? Jaime had seen men fall on the battlefield, not from any wound but from the miasma that set in after the fact. Even with a learned Maester present, those men rarely had any hope of survival.

“I cleaned her wounds myself, my lord. It is not that. Come, a bed has been prepared for you.” Jaime knew of that bed, high in the garret. For his own protection, so they said. But there were no windows there; how would he watch? He shooed Qyburn away, keeping his vigil.

* * *

“We ought to take this opportunity to find some fresh meat,” Steelshanks told Jaime the next morning. Two days and two nights now she had been gone. “The Maester will remain here with you, of course, and one of my men.”

“As guard?” Jaime asked. If she came out of the woods anywhere to the north of the holdfast, he would see her from this window.

“Of course not. For your protection.” Ah, his protection. A dead man warranted few coins.

Steelshanks was waiting, so Jaime inclined his head, giving them permission, he supposed. It wasn't as though they needed his permission, but he would not look down his nose at them while they were still doing as he asked by staying put.

Off they rode, to the west. With luck, they would find a stag; at the very least, they should find a rabbit or two. Jaime would even be willing to eat squirrel. He let Qyburn press a dry biscuit into his hand, ate without thinking. He thought about asking the man to bring him a few of the mealy apples the men had picked off the ground outside, but Qyburn was obsequious enough already. And Jaime had not forgotten his wish to remove the whole of his arm. The less time he spent with him, the better.

Jaime was so intent upon watching the approach from the north that he didn't notice the clouds rolling in from the east at all. Not until he saw the trees start to bend and sway, whipping side to side, did he notice the weather. The day turned a sullen, sickly yellow-green. Autumn storms were capricious. They could fly in without notice and tear the earth apart, then vanish before a man could draw his next breath. Jaime made his way downstairs, not remembering the apples at all. He went out the front door, staring up at the black, billowing clouds now nearly overhead.

“Ought to get inside,” the man left to guard him – no, _protect_ him – said. Jaime only then realized that Steelshanks had left Thorny. A smirk from the greasy man leaning insouciantly in the door.

Jaime turned his back on the man. Dangerous, yes, but he would show no fear. He walked out into the knee-high grass, seeing lightning streak across the dark sky to the east. Thunder followed in short order. 

And then the wind died entirely. He only heard the secretive whispers in the grass and in the leaves when they stopped. His hair stood on end. This was no mere autumn storm approaching. He thought for a moment to say a prayer for the men out hunting in the woods, but prayer would do them little good now.

* * *

They had a smoky little fire going in the hearth, but it provided little warmth and no cheer. Qyburn kept attempting conversation, but neither Thorny nor Jaime could make out more than one word out of every five, so Jaime didn't know why the man bothered. The storm raged outside; rain battered against the walls and windows, thunder boomed so loudly it shuddered through his bones, and the wind whistled and howled like a god possessed. 

The thatched roof, of course, was leaking. Jaime considered heading upstairs anyway, wrapping a cloak around himself and damning the damp, but he was too tired to want to manage the stairs. Qyburn had been correct about him needing his rest.

Thorny stood, ostentatiously rolling his neck side to side, rotating his shoulders. He made a lazy circuit around the room, as though he were only working the stiffness out of his legs. But his eyes kept darting over to Jaime, and twice Jaime saw one of his hands steal inside his jacket, patting something there.

Jaime had nothing, not even a knife. Steelshanks had given him a knife, more to cut his meat than for anything else, but it was upstairs, on the sill of the second-storey window from which he had been watching.

Thorny made another circuit of the room. This time, as he passed behind Jaime, he paused for the slightest moment. Jaime did not think. He fell forward out of his chair to his knees, twisting around, grabbing the chair with his left hand. Thorny had already committed himself, coming forward with his knife out; Jaime spun the chair out and up and smashed it into Thorny's side.

Not much of a blow, but it was enough to knock the man aside. Jaime would feel it tomorrow, lifting such a dead weight with no help from his legs, swinging it level with his shoulders. That was a recipe for tearing up one's shoulder as sure as anything, though Jaime normally saw it in jousting. Hopefully, he would still be alive tomorrow to feel it.

In the meantime, Thorny, proving himself to be no brain, threw his knife at Jaime's head. The throw was wide, and Jaime was already moving, besides. He was dimly aware of Qyburn standing to the side, hands fluttering in the air, wheezing. _No help there._ Jaime surged to his feet, not giving Thorny a chance to get his bearings. He threw himself at the man, swinging wildly with his left hand, feeling more than hearing the blows. 

Thorny went down on his back, and Jaime dropped atop him, driving his knees into the man's chest. There was a satisfying _whomp_ as the air in Thorny's lungs was pushed out. Jaime could probably count on the man being subdued after this, returning to his own corner, maybe grousing and muttering, but he would no doubt leave Jaime alone. Until Jaime went to sleep, that was. Would Thorny be able to resist the temptation to stab him in the back? 

He could not depend on it, so Jaime leaned forward, putting his left arm over Thorny's throat, bearing down with all his weight. It would have been nice to do it with his right arm, but it was wrapped up in its sling and he wouldn't bring his face that close to Thorny's. Still, it sufficed, and Jaime kept the pressure on long after he was sure Thorny was dead.

The storm continued outside. Would there be any rain left in the heavens after this?

“What have you done?” Qyburn moaned, hands still fluttering in the air.

“The man was going to kill me. Should I have sat still and let him?”

“And what will Walton say when he learns that you have killed one of his men?” Qyburn tugged on his shirt, where his maester's chain had once lain. “I am only being brought south to tend to your wounds,” he added, not needing to say that if Jaime were dead, there would be no need to keep Qyburn around. Jaime supposed that such a man could only have survived as long as he had by worrying only about his own survival. Still, his words rankled.

“There's a cozy room upstairs in the garret,” Jaime said, climbing off Thorny's corpse, smoothing down his beard. “I suggest you take shelter there.”

Qyburn stared at him, the corners of his mouth jerking. With a haughty air ill at odds with his raggedy clothing and wild hair, he left the room. A moment later, Jaime heard the muffled stomps of his feet ascending the wooden stairs.

And then he was alone.

It was probably evening outside, maybe even late evening, but it may as well have been the dead of night. Unbelievably, the rain started coming down even harder. _Brienne, how are you making your way through this?_ Jaime felt old, and worse, worn down. He used to be _more_ than he was now – and it wasn't just the hand. He was hollowed out, emptied.

This was just how he had felt when he'd learned that Locke had rejected Lord Tarth's ransom.

How dark that ride had been, back to Harrenhal. A thousand terrible possibilities had churned through his mind; he would never have thought anything could have been worse than finding her unarmed in a bear pit, but at least she had been alive, and at least he had been able to get her out, with some help from Steelshanks. Then, however, he had known where she was. It had just been a matter of getting there in time. Now, he had no idea. 

“What does it matter?” he asked himself, pacing around the room himself, stepping over Thorny's corpse without ever seeing it. It was ridiculous, to insist on sitting around days on end, just hoping she would somehow show up. Each hour that passed, that was more and more unlikely.

But when he'd seen her whole and alive outside the pit, when he'd watched Qyburn clean her wounds, when he slept beside her at night, he didn't feel quite so empty. So how could he leave?

Wishing he'd waited to send Qyburn away, Jaime finally dragged the body out the back; if he could delay Steelshanks discovering Thorny's death even if only for a few moments, then that would be all to the better. By the time he finished removing the corpse, he was exhausted, breathing hard, barely able to stand up straight. And he was completely soaked through.

Jaime returned inside, to the little kitchen. The room had been partially dug into the side of the hill, and the clamor of the storm was lessened, though not absent. Just a brief spell outside, and his clothes were sodden. Taking them off was a chore, and draping them in front of the fire even more so, but hopefully they would be a little more dry by morning. Then he allowed himself the luxury of a wash, just a rag dipped into an ewer, rubbed across a dried-out chunk of old soap, then drawn over his body, but better than nothing. What he would have given to soak in a real hot bath...

_(She stands, brazen and shameless, water dripping from her naked body.)_

He banished the thought, and the memory of the image that came with it, with a vicious shake of his head. It only succeeded in giving him a headache. “What else is new?” he growled at the room.

Hours later, the storm had relented some, though Jaime would not have wanted to be out in it nevertheless. He threw another log on the fire; there were only two left in the bin, and gods knew he wouldn't find anything dry outside. Hopefully the embers would keep him warm through the night. Marshaling the last of his strength, Jaime dragged two straw ticks from the downstairs rooms into the main hall, right in front of the hearth. Two blankets, in addition to the one he already had wrapped around his naked body, and an actual feather pillow.

How had his life come to this? Such simple joy at having a feather pillow.

Jaime had just bedded down when he heard someone at the door. Steelshanks and his men were back, then. They wouldn't take kindly to Jaime taking all the beds and the whole of the main hall. With a sigh and a half-stifled groan, he struggled back to his feet.

The door opened before he could reach it, swinging into the wall with a bang as the wind took it. A lone figure stood there, dripping wet, illuminated only by the lightning crashing through the sky behind; a black silhouette, tall and ominous. Despite himself, Jaime felt a moment's fear. He simply didn't have the strength to defend himself again, not if it came to violence.

“Who goes there?” he demanded, drawing the blanket more tightly around his shoulders, not an easy task. Nothing was these days.

The voice that answered him was hoarse, and the exhaustion it carried with it was palpable. “Jaime?”

Merciful Mother. It was Brienne.


	3. Chapter 3

Brienne woke to screams. They were close, shrill, and undeniably those of a child. Thankfully she hadn't bothered to undress at all, nor even remove her boots. She made sure of the knife at her belt and stood, not noticing the stiffness in her joints from sleeping curled up between tree roots.

The horse looked at her curiously as Brienne walked past it; riding would be too loud, and she wouldn't risk the horse coming to harm. If she had to proceed afoot, she would never catch up to Jaime. Brienne tiptoed through the trees, carefully avoiding stepping on branches. The screams had cut off, leaving only an unsure silence in the air. The birds had not yet resumed their morning song, and even the wind seemed to be holding its breath.

There was a little trail ahead, a clearing in the woods. Enough for three or four to walk abreast. Twenty or thirty paces behind, she saw a small figure crumpled on the ground. A man stood over her, one foot on the child's shoulder, keeping her down. “Will you never learn?” the man groused. He was young, probably no older than twenty, with a wispy yellow beard to match the wispy yellow hair atop his head. Thin, with gimlet eyes. From a pocket he withdrew a piece of rope, and knelt over the child. He began tying the rope around the child's neck.

“That's quite enough,” Brienne said, stepping out onto the path, hands on hips. She pitched her voice down a trifle, knowing that many men wouldn't really hear her; they would only see her height, her clothes, her chopped-off hair, and they would take her for a man. Once that pained her terribly – though didn't she choose to dress this way herself? – but it came in quite handy these days.

“This is none of your concern!” the blond man said, though his voice cracked in the middle of the sentence, and he scuttled back a few steps from the child. “This girl is my daughter, and she's been a wayward child, that she has.”

“Your daughter?” Brienne kept her voice mild, and her steps slow, but she continued toward the pair without pause. One hand on the hilt of the knife. The blond man saw, swallowing hard. “Then what is her name?”

He paused, long enough to assure Brienne there was no possible way he told the truth. She did not have to say anything else, or withdraw the knife from its sheath; the blond man turned and ran away down the path.

The crumpled figure didn't move when Brienne approached, and for a moment she feared that she was too late. But as she gently pushed aside dark, tangled hair, she saw wide eyes staring up at her with unmasked terror. Brienne kept brushing the hair back, softly, and she put a smile on her face. “It's all right now,” she said. The girl didn't seem to understand her words at all; there was no comprehension in those eyes. “He's gone.”

The girl moved her head just enough to peer up the path. Then she began crying, weak sobs that were nearly silent. Brienne sat upon the ground beside her, and was faintly surprised when the girl clambered up into her lap, thin arms knotting around her waist, burying her face in Brienne's chest. “There, there,” she said awkwardly. Children usually stared at her, or laughed and pointed, or ran away. Other than a few infant cousins, she had never held a child before.

They were too exposed, sitting here on the cleared path. But Brienne could not bring herself to move, not while the girl was crying so hard she was afraid she might break.

Finally, some time later, the girl's tears died out. Brienne stroked her hand up and down the shaking little back, feeling the hard knobs of the girl's spine, the delicate wings of shoulder blades. A little bird, that's all she was. The girl pulled away enough to look up at Brienne's face. Clear blue eyes stared, washed clean by tears. 

“Are you a hero, like from the stories?” the girl asked. Brienne shook her head, and the girl's face crumpled. So she leaned her head down and whispered in the girl's ear.

“They've never written a story about a hero like me.”

* * *

Brienne fed the girl, Melysa, the heel of bread and the dried apples. She ate them methodically – bite chew chew chew swallow, bite chew chew chew swallow – and would have eaten the cores if Brienne had not stopped her.

“When did you last eat?” she asked, and Melysa shrugged. Then she drank from a skin as though she had never seen water before. Brienne carefully ignored the grumbles in her own stomach.

Melysa went over to the horse, petting its nose and cooing at it. How strange, that she could have been the wretched creature Brienne had found scarcely half an hour ago, sobbing with her face in the dirt, and now appear as right as rain. Having a full stomach could be a marvelous thing. “What's his name?” she asked in her breathy little voice.

Brienne had no idea what the horse's name was. But she recognized something of herself as a child in this little girl, so she said the first thing that popped into her head. “Milky, for the white on his back.” Melysa investigated, and petted the white spot with a shy smile.

“He looks just like one of our horses.”

“And where are your horses?” Brienne asked. Melysa sighed, resting her head on the horse's flank.

“Father said it wasn't safe, so we packed our clothes and things onto the horses and left. We were heading north, to my aunt's great hall in the Riverlands.” Brienne kept her face impassive; dear gods, the stupid man had led his family right into the worst of the fighting. “But we didn't get very far. That _man_ ,” Melysa spat, “him and his brothers, they came upon us in the night. Like wolves! We were only two nights from home. They killed Tather and my little brother. They...my mother...” Melysa could say no more, and Brienne did not make her. She had a good idea what the men had done to the little girl's mother.

“Did they hurt you, child?” she asked softly. Melysa shook her head sadly. “Not yet.”

* * *

After feeding the horse with the last of the grain in her pack, Brienne settled Melysa on the saddle. It was far too large for the girl, so Brienne stuffed a wadded-up cloak behind her, to relieve some of the jostling. Not that they would be riding hard, with Brienne walking alongside.

“But we need to go north!” Melysa cried when she realized in what direction they were going.

“There's nothing north for you, child,” Brienne answered, and something in her tone communicated all that Melysa needed to hear. Her face settled into a look of patient resignation far too old for her features.

Hours melted away, one after the next. Brienne became positive that she had strayed from the way the others had taken. She passed no sign of a camp. Had Steelshanks taken them along the cleared path? There were enough armed men to deal with a small gang like the blond man and his brothers. But that path was not for her to take, not alone and with a little girl to guard. She could only hope that she would find them eventually, so long as she kept traveling south.

The two of them made camp that night under a bluff, a little overhang that had once been carved out by high floodwaters. As it was, the stream that must have been the culprit was now only a burbling brook, scarcely three steps wide, wending its way through the land quite some ways from their spot. Brienne didn't dare build a fire, but the girl curled up beside her so closely she didn't worry about her catching a chill.

They remained where they were for most of the next morning, until Brienne managed to catch a few little fish in the brook, none longer than her hand. Now she did build a small fire, letting it burn long enough only to catch a log or two; then she blanketed it with dried leaves and then wet leaves, until the flames had been smothered and the smoke died out, and cooked the fish on the coals. Melysa had wandered, though never from Brienne's sight, and had found berries for them to share, as well as hedge apples for the horse. It was a pleasant luncheon, but if Brienne had to devote half a day to foraging every day, they would make very little ground.

“So what kind of hero are you?” Melysa asked, rocking back and forth atop Milky. Brienne stifled a smile, put on her deep voice.

“I'm the kind of hero who rescues maidens.” Melysa giggled. “In fact, I was on my way south to King's Landing when I found you, to rescue two young maidens there.”

“Princesses?”

“Near enough as makes no difference,” Brienne agreed. Melysa grinned down happily.

That night she could find no good place to camp. All the ground was flat, the trees of a sameness. They would have to take their chances on the ground. Wolves were howling in the night, somewhere off to the west. Brienne was afraid Melysa would take a fright, but she only listened, sitting up and peering out into the dark.

“Why do you think they're howling? Are they calling for their mother?”

That was as good a reason as any, so Brienne nodded.

* * *

The storm came upon them with sudden fury. By the time Brienne found a place deep under the canopy of leaves, they were both soaked through to the bone. The rain found its way to them still, but it was better than being caught out in that torrential downpour.

“Brienne?” Melysa asked, teeth chattering. “I think we're close to home.”

“We'll wait till this passes,” Brienne told her. But the storm raged for hours yet, and showed no signs of relenting. Finally giving up, she put the girl back on Milky and ventured out once again.

Melysa guided them back to the path, which Brienne took with many misgivings. The ground had turned to a soupy, muddy mess, but it was still easier to navigate than the deep undergrowth of the woods, and they hurried south. Brienne jogged alongside the horse, her stomach a hard knot, a deep fatigue settling into her limbs. If they had to travel much further, she would have to ride herself; and with the two of them ahorse, they would have to move slowly, giving Milky plenty of rest, or he would collapse and be of no use to either.

Lightning raced through the sky so furiously it never stayed dark for long. Despite the downpour, Brienne saw Melysa staring up into that sky, blinking the rain away. She said something that Brienne could hardly make out through the relentless, booming thunder. _Mother and I used to watch the lightning_ , she thought the child had said.

The path came to a triple fork, and Melysa pointed unerringly at the far right branch. Brienne took it, and before long they began climbing a hill. She thought the sun had gone down, though it was hard to tell through the black of the storm, the driving rain. Her legs protested, but Brienne pushed herself to keep pace with Milky. Melysa was shivering constantly, and Brienne feared that if they did not find shelter soon, the girl would catch her death.

The path wended back and forth through the trees, but always up, up. Brienne caught herself dozing as she climbed, and would snap back as a particularly loud burst of thunder rattled her teeth. Her wet clothes were so heavy, and the mud sucked at her boots. If she could lay down, if only for a few minutes... Brienne shook rain from her eyes and kept marching.

She might have walked right past the holdfast and over the other side of the hill if Melysa hadn't reached down and thumped her shoulder. “Home! There it is, it's home!” It stood atop the hill, dark and forbidding, a black shape rearing out of more blackness, lit by the eldritch cracks of lightning. Some sudden dread seized Brienne, fingers snaking into her gut, and she thought to pass it by regardless. But Melysa was shivering so hard her body jerked, and the horse's head drooped low.

They went to the stable. The doors were secure, and inside there were clean stalls and dry hay. Milky ate, his mournful eyes seeming to forgive Brienne for what she had done. “Aren't we going to go inside?” Melysa asked plaintively, tugging on Brienne's hand. 

“We don't know if someone else is inside,” she said, finding a rag to dry off the girl's hair.

“But there's no lights in the windows. And we all left, Father and Mother and Symon and all of us.” Brienne knew she was being foolish, but something told her to stay out here in the stable. She took care of Milky, brushing him well and finding a bag of oats. She'd see to the saddle in the morning; she was simply too tired to do much else.

There was a shirt in one of the packs that was still mostly dry, and she put Melysa in it. The girl's skin was covered with goosebumps, as white as a dead fish, but her shivering had lessened, and Brienne felt no fever when she put a hand to her head. 

The doors to the stalls rattled every time thunder boomed and cracked outside. But when Brienne laid Melysa down in some clean, soft straw, the girl was asleep seemingly in seconds. Despite her own fatigue, Brienne found herself possessed of a jumpy nervousness. She paced the length of the stable, looking into the other stalls. Someone had been here recently. Many someones, with many horses. _Jaime?_ she thought immediately, but she cast the idea out of her head. If Jaime and the others had stayed here, it had to have been days ago, and they would have moved on by now.

Then why did the thought of going inside the holdfast fill her with such dread?

Brienne went to a ladder and climbed up to the top of the stable, a loft with pitched ceilings, a place for tools to be stored, and for little girls and boys to play. Had Melysa played up here, just a few weeks ago, before her Father had fled into death? Brienne made her way down to the end, to the little window there; no glass, of course, just a louvered set of wood planks. She twisted them open, the stable's eave keeping the worst of the rain out of her eyes. The holdfast loomed ahead of her. Was she mistaken, or was there a candle lit up in the garret? Before she could crane her head to look more closely, the back door opened.

She held her breath. Someone dragged out a body. Only just outside the door, dumping it there in the mud, leaving it exposed. And she thought of the blond man and his brothers. Had they found the holdfast themselves? Had Melysa's mother told them of its location?

Heart in her throat, Brienne slid down the ladder. It seemed that the someone had returned inside, but she watched for many long minutes, making sure. Then she crept outside, making her way over to the back door of the holdfast. The squelching of her feet in the mud seemed terribly loud to her own ears, and she kept waiting for the door to swing open again. But she was the only one moving out here in the storm, and the body remained still at her feet when she reached it.

Brienne leaned down, rolling the body over onto its back, waiting for a good flash of lightning to illuminate the face. She was expecting a woman, face ravaged by pain and horror, Melysa's poor mother. Instead, when the flash of light came, she beheld the ugly face of Yohn Thorngood. Another flash showed her the cuts in his skin; a third his bulging eyes. Murdered, and recently at that.

If Yohn were here, then at least one other of Steelshanks' party must be here as well, to have dragged the body outside. But whom? And where were the rest of the men and their horses?

She would never be able to sleep – let alone let Melysa sleep – so close to the holdfast until she knew what was going on. Brienne crept around the holdfast, keeping one hand to the stone at her right, until she reached the front door. There was a single window to her left, one thick pane of heavy glass marred by the slightest of waves. Brienne put her face to the window, down at the bottom, and peered inside, hoping no bright burst of lightning showed her presence to whoever was there.

Only an empty room. There was a fire going, but most of its light was blocked by clothes draped over the backs of chairs around it; otherwise, they would have seen it during their first approach up the hill. Brienne looked closer – someone was sleeping on the floor in front of the hearth. Probably the same someone who had murdered Yohn Thorngood and dragged his body out into the rain. 

She would steal inside and see who it was. If it was one of Steelshanks' men, she would have to decide whether to let him sleep, whether to wake him up and have him bring her and Melysa inside, or whether to kill him. If it was Qyburn...but that seemed unlikely. Could he have dragged a man out into the rain? Perhaps. But kill him?

And if it was Jaime? But she would not allow herself to hope for that.

Brienne went to the door. It was unlocked, and when she opened it, the wind took it and slammed it into the wall. _So much for surprise_. The man was now standing in front of the hearth, a blanket wrapped around him. “Who goes there?” the man asked, voice a defiant challenge. She knew that voice, had once hated that voice, and had somehow come to love that voice.

Brienne smiled into the dark.


	4. Chapter 4

“As right as rain,” Qyburn pronounced, and Jaime watched Brienne tuck the little girl in once Qyburn stepped back. They had moved her up to the little garret room, which she had told them in a wan voice was her very own room. Brienne made sure the blankets were up tight under the girl's chin, and Jaime watched, bemused, as she smoothed the girl's hair back from her forehead.

“As right as rain,” Qyburn said again with a chuckle. “And surely enough, she's had more than enough rain.”

“Thank you,” Jaime said shortly. Qyburn's smile faded away, and he slunk out the door, downstairs to his own room. And then it was just the two of them. There was a sleeping child, of course, but Brienne was no longer looking at her, just at Jaime. The longing in her eyes was so naked, so rough, that Jaime had to look away.

“I thought you'd be miles away by now,” she said. He could only shake his head. There was the strangest lump in his throat. He held out his hand, and she took it, and he guided her downstairs.

In the kitchen, Brienne undressed. He could only suppose that since he had seen her nude once before, she didn't care if he saw her nude again, for she did nothing to hide herself from him. Jaime turned half-away, giving her a modicum of privacy. “I was...” he started to say, then stopped. _I was quite worried about you,_ he meant to finish, but the words seemed inadequate. And wouldn't she gather that anyway, from the fact that he had stayed for her? She said nothing, so he looked back at her. She faced away from him, scrubbing at her body with a rag and the chunk of soap. In her masculine clothes and armor, she seemed so unfeminine, so boxy and plain. Naked, candlelight flickering over her skin and giving it a golden glow, she was a woman such as he had never seen nor imagined. Not a woman one would expect to see in the Seven Kingdoms, but a woman from legend, from myth. Had Nymeria herself looked a bit like this? Tall, imposing, broad strong shoulders and solid back, surprisingly narrow waist, firm buttocks, all overlaid with smooth skin. Even her short hair suited her now, the ends beginning to curl, revealing a long, elegant neck. Her legs were like long pillars of marble, and Jaime was reminded of a statue. Like a statue, she wasn't quite real, didn't seem like she belonged, but that only made her more beautiful.

Not able to help himself, Jaime stepped forward. He traced one finger down the length of her spine. Brienne flinched, but she didn't move away, and when Jaime rested his hand on the side of her hip, she leaned back just a little, enough so that he knew she welcomed his touch. Her stomach had the slightest swell to it, a most entrancing curve, and Jaime slid his palm along it. Her skin was still slightly damp and cool. His thumb dipped into her navel, and she gasped; Jaime moved forward as he pulled her back, their bodies pressed together. She was just a tiny bit taller than he was, and he lifted his chin to rest it on her shoulder.

“You're probably exhausted,” he murmured, sliding his fingers gently against the skin of her stomach. He let them wander downward, drawing a line just above the thatch of hair between her legs. She shivered again, and he could hear the effort it took for her to keep her breathing even. “Come, let's get some sleep.”

They walked back to the main hall, to the straw mattresses he had dragged before the fire. He wanted to feast his eyes on the sight of her, but that seemed like something other men would do. Brienne crawled under the blankets; Jaime unwrapped himself and shook out his blanket, piling it up on top. She had already seen him naked, too, of course. Unlike in the baths, when she had skittered into the corner, averting her gaze like he was some kind of monster who would blind her if she stared, now Brienne looked up at him as he joined her, her eyes roaming over his body. There was nothing lascivious in her look, though, and when he settled into the mattress, she traced a finger over a puckered scar on his chest.

“Do you want the story of that?” he asked, and she only shook her head. He turned to his side, slinged arm beneath him, just staring at her. She closed her eyes, sighing.

Jaime found he could not stop touching her. He had not realized how much he had expected never to see her again until he did. He brushed his fingers along her collarbone, down her arm, across her knuckles; over her stomach again, up and up, gently tracing circles around her breasts. When he ran his fingertips over her nipples, watching them stiffen, she opened her eyes and looked at him again.

Jaime had a hundred things he wanted to say to her; he could think of nothing to say. And it seemed that words might mar this moment, intrude where they weren't wanted. Brienne brought her own fingers up, drawing them over his lips. He kissed her fingertips, one by one, until she replaced them with her mouth.

A soft kiss, a sweet kiss. He could not help but wonder if it was her first. She rolled onto her side as well, the length of her body, now warm, flush against his. He continued to run his fingers over her skin, gently, gently. He was afraid she might change her mind, afraid she would bolt. But she did neither, and her sigh as he licked her lower lip was a revelation.

It was exceedingly strange, to kiss a woman who was not Cersei, to caress skin and stroke hair that was not Cersei's. In a sense, this all felt as new to him as it must to Brienne. There was a single moment when he felt he needed to end it, when Brienne timidly ran a hand down to stroke his cock; this was adultery, whether he and Cersei had said vows or not. But then Brienne put that same hand to the small of his back, pulling him close, burying her face in his shoulder. They held each other.

Jaime wondered if she felt the same way he did; nothing existed outside of the holdfast, outside of this room, outside of the cocoon they shared under the blankets. Who knew what tomorrow would bring? For tonight, this was the only world he wanted.

Before long, lips and tongue joined fingers in their exploration of her body, her planes and arcs, her graceful geometry. Her shuddering cries of pleasure joined with the cacophony of the storm. “Jaime,” she whispered, “Jaime, Jaime,” until he kissed her quiet. Lightning under the blankets, as they moved together. 

“Touch me, please,” he begged, as she drew circles on his hips, as she licked secrets along his skin. She gave his cock a kiss instead, a sweet kiss, just on the tip. Then she crawled up his body, kisses here and there, asking him a question with her eyes. Jaime nodded, needing nothing so much as he needed her. Brienne took him slowly, and he watched her face carefully for any sign of pain. But she was warm and wet and open, and he only saw wonder and beauty in her eyes. 

He didn't last long at all, and yet it seemed he'd been inside her for hours. Brienne carefully arranged herself over his body, head on his shoulder; he was too tired to help. He wanted to assure her of his feelings for her, even though he couldn't yet define them to himself; he wanted to thank her; instead, he kissed her cheek and squeezed her close, and maybe that was the same thing.

* * *

The dawn was a welcome sight, breaking rosy over a well-scrubbed land. Jaime stood outside, his clothes dry enough to put on, drinking hot tea, thinking very little. He could hear Steelshanks and his men returning, though he could not yet see them. Part of him, admittedly a rather large part, had rather hoped they'd all been washed away with the storm.

Brienne joined him. He would not have minded one bit if she had put an arm around his waist, if she had kissed him good morning. But she only rested her hand on his shoulder a moment.

“What shall we do with the girl?” he asked.

“I won't leave her here.” Brienne spoke as though Jaime had been planning on flinging the child into the privy before they left. Once he might have bristled, shot back with words meant to hurt, but now he only smiled, and offered her his mug of tea. She took one single, polite sip.

“I suppose now that Thorny's dead, she can ride his horse.” Now that earned him a peck on the cheek.

It turned out they didn't need to worry about the girl at all. When the men made it to the top of the hill half an hour later, and were told of what had happened during their absence, Steelshanks' scout went to Brienne and clapped her on the back, over and over. “My little cousin, she is! Ah, gods, how I worried when I seen they wasn't here.” Jaime thankfully missed out on the family reunion; Brienne found a pair of scissors and trimmed his beard and hair. 

The little girl found them, as the others were packing up to leave. She hugged Brienne tightly, and Brienne finally had to push her arms away – gently, but firmly. “You could come with us,” the girl pleaded, tugging on Brienne's hand. “Waymon is taking me to his father's house, it's far away but he says no one's fighting there.”

“But I told you, Melysa,” Brienne said, rubbing the girl's back; the sight of it did something to Jaime, and he looked away. “I have princesses to rescue; who will rescue them if I do not?”

“Will I see you again?” the girl whispered. Jaime did not hear Brienne's answer, though he heard the girl's quiet cries.

Jaime demanded that half the men be sent with the scout and the girl; Steelshanks protested, worried more about his own hide than Jaime's, no doubt, but in the end, it was done. They were a small troupe now, headed south, but Jaime liked it far better that way.

When they made camp, Brienne no longer rolled her eyes or sighed when she saw that he'd moved their beds side by side; and when the fires burned out and the moon was high, he wrapped his arms around her and stole all her warmth.


	5. Epilogue

Jaime saw the exact moment when Cersei saw the stump. It wasn't that her face fell, exactly; it wasn't even that she looked surprised or shocked. He watched her face close off, grow opaque, become the mask she showed everyone but him, and on occasion their brother. 

He watched as he lost her.

* * *

The room they had given her was large, clean, airy. The bed was a real bed, the pillows real pillows. Carpets on the floor, fine white candles that burned with perfect little puffs of gray smoke and the scent of roses. It all felt foreign after so long on the road, after countless nights spent lying on the earth, only a lumpy pack for a pillow, her own body odor so strong she could hardly stand it.

Girls had brought in hot water, filled the copper tub in the corner, and Brienne had gratefully bathed. She looked after her wounds, which all seemed to be healing quite nicely, and rubbed expensive lotions into her skin. She smiled at the clothes that had been left for her: trousers of a leather so soft they felt like silk; shirt and jacket that fit like a dream; good boots; Jaime's work, she had no doubt.

She had asked everyone she had seen about the Stark girls, and was told, “soon, soon.” She began to doubt they were still in the city. Perhaps they were no longer even alive.

Brienne resigned herself to a sleepless night. A strange place, a strange bed, unsure if the whole reason she had made the journey was even here, worrying about what might happen to her if the King or his Council didn't agree to the exchange...

And as much as she hated to admit it, she missed Jaime terribly. For awhile there, she had forgotten that he would not continue with her, once she returned to Lady Stark with her daughters; she had willfully forgotten, she knew. But if all went just as they had wished at the start of this journey, then she and Jaime must be parted. Brienne did not know how to think about that, so she simply did not think about it. She pushed it out of her mind, undressing to smallclothes and climbing into that big, real, soft bed; and then...she thought about Jaime.

So when he knocked on her door in the small hours of the night, Brienne was hardly surprised. She let him in, and they stood there and looked at each other. How many hours of her life had she now spent looking at his face? It was on the tip of her tongue to ask about the girls, but she knew that would hurt him, so she kept her mouth shut. Then he kissed her mouth, hard, with such blatant possession that she was half-tempted to shove him back, but when her hands reached for him, it was to tug him closer instead.


End file.
